


can't take my eyes off you

by supernutellastuff



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 1960s, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Mutual Pining, Spies & Secret Agents, The Man From U.N.C.L.E AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-10 05:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17419826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supernutellastuff/pseuds/supernutellastuff
Summary: “Well, guess we’ll have to move to Plan B.”Natasha reappears with a toothbrush. “I hate Plan B,” she states through a mouthful of paste.James crosses his arm. “Yeah, why can’t you and Stark play happy marriage this time?”“Because, my dear soldier, no one would ever believe I could be with someone like her,” drawls Stark, which gets him a bottle of vanilla-scented lotion chucked at his head. He dodges with ease. He’s not so lucky with the tube of lipstick. “That could have been open.” Aghast, Stark inspects his suit for any red smudges.“Just once I would like to kick back and relax while the two of you be the couple,” Natasha grumbles.“I mean, come one, it’s the 60s.”...The Man from U.N.C.L.E AU or the one where James and Natasha pretend to be a couple (again) and Stark has the worst sense of timing ever.





	can't take my eyes off you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [one_of_those_crushing_scenes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_of_those_crushing_scenes/gifts).



> Written for ootcs.   
> I'm so sorry I'm late! I started with your prompt "some sort of plans get ruined by the weather" but then I wrote an introduction to the premise from Tony's POV and the fic sort of ballooned from there and took up all my time. Hope you like it nonetheless! I've tried to combine some other things you've mentioned you like. Enjoy :)
> 
> You don't need to be familiar with the The Man from UNCLE to read this fic. Just know that the movie is set in the 1960s, during the Cold War, and UNCLE is an initiative to bring together agents from different international communities to prevent world-ending catastrophes. It's a fun, slick, stylish romp filled with tons of eye candy ;)

When Tony Stark is sent to East Berlin to extract a civilian, he knows it isn’t going to be a simple mission. Crossing the Berlin Wall at Checkpoint Charlie, he’s conscious of eyes on his back. Stark’s a genius inventor, occasional conman and an efficient agent; still it takes all his wits to shake off the tail.

The auto mechanic shop is empty except for his mark. She’s younger than him, red curls pulled back into a messy bun, smudges of grease on her cheek. She glowers at him in suspicion while he explains what he’s here for.

“And why should I trust you?” she inquires in a quaint German accent.

Stark directs her attention to the street, where a nondescript car idles round the corner. A hulking figure is visible through the windshield. There's a glint of metal.

“Because I’m here to save you from _that_.”

* * *

A car chase down the eerily uniform streets of the Soviet bloc doesn’t exactly make for the discreet extraction Stark had in mind. He’s cursing as their Opel Kapitan pinwheels around tight corners. He fumbles with the silencer; it’s a bulky thing, one of his inventions, very effective, but requiring manual assemblage. Stark has no choice—a gunshot in the middle of the night in East Berlin is not the sort of attention he needs. He wonders whether he has the time to dissemble his camera and use the bulb as a flash gun.

Their pursuer creeps closer and Stark catches a glimpse of him. And laughs out loud.

“What?” the girl asks, looking at him as if he’s crazy.

“They sent the fucking Winter Soldier after us,” he says in wonder. “I can’t believe this.”

“Who is he?” Her grip on the wheel is tight as death.

“Only the deadliest assassin in the world. Expert marksman, silent as a ghost. Oh, did I mention he has a fucking _metal arm_??” His voice is even but his mind is working at a million miles. Stark casts her an appraising glance. “They must really want you dead.” His handlers hadn’t told him why she was important. But if the Russians were after her too…

She takes a couple of sharp turns and they emerge into a dark road lined with warehouses under construction. Stark checks the rear-view mirror. “I think we’ve lost him.”

 _Thump_. Something lands on the car roof. Stark looks up and ducks just in time as a metal hand comes crashing through the window, aimed straight for his head. The girl rotates the wheel frantically. The Opel pivots and bucks and the Winter Soldier is almost knocked off balance. Almost.

There are two gunshots, as sharp as they are silent. A ringing sound as Stark’s temple crashes against the side of the car. It takes him a moment to realise that he _hasn’t_ been shot. The girl, realising the Soldier had been about to shoot at Stark through the roof, had kicked him out of the way.

“I must say you have marvellous reflexes for a car mechanic,” he compliments.

“Shut up.” The car comes to a screeching halt. The Winter Soldier is finally thrown out in front. He manoeuvres his fall into a roll and comes springing up like a cat. There’s a dent on the road from where he’d used his left hand to push himself up.

The Winter Soldier approaches them as if he has all the time in the world. He’s wearing all black—black pants, black vest, black goggles. There’s a red star painted on his shoulder.

Stark squeezes the trigger in quick succession. The Soldier holds up his metal hand, almost lazily, and blocks the bullets.

“Get behind me!” Stark tells the girl. At least his death would prove his loyalty beyond all doubt to the CIA. The prospect of finally proving his handlers wrong makes him want to laugh again.

 _Crack_. The Winter Soldier whips off his goggles and discards them in disgust. For the first time, he looks pissed.

Stark turns to the girl in amazement. “Lucky shot.” She shrugs and takes aim again with her silenced gun.

The Winter Soldier charges. The girl fires once, twice, thrice. The Winter Soldier drops like a sack of potatoes.

Stark goggles at the girl as she steps gingerly towards the Soldier slumped on the ground.

“Don’t worry, I tranquilised him.” It’s then that Stark realises there’s no trace of accent in her voice.

Straightening the cuffs of his suit, he looks her in the eye and asks, as if they'd just met at a dinner party: “You’re not just a chop shop girl from East Berlin, are you.”

The girl tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear and gives him a terrifying grin.

And that’s how Tony Stark meets the Black Widow.

* * *

 

“So let me get this straight. This was a _recruitment_ drive?” Stark paces in front of the bay window overlooking the canal. They’d left Berlin for Amsterdam the same night where they’d been greeted by a man in an eye patch—of all things—at a safehouse.

“Your handlers agreed to lend you,” says Nick Fury. “This was a test we devised.”

“And you passed. Congratulations.” The Widow waves at him cheerily from where she’s skinning an apple with a sharp knife.

“You’re getting peel all over the floor,” Stark points out. “And can you please eat the apple _with_ the skin like a normal person?”

“America and Russia are at loggerheads, but that doesn’t mean anyone wants an _actual_ nuclear war.” Fury tosses him a manila folder with the words "United Network Command for Law and Enforcement" stamped across it. “That’s where we come in.”

“World peace. How noble.”

“More like running interference against those who wish to take advantage of the arms race for their own diabolical plans,” the Widow replies. “You’d be surprised at how many there are.”

“It’s a thankless, behind-the-scenes job,” continues Fury. His eye, singular, seems to stare right through Stark. “For which we need highly-skilled individuals.”

“Me, obviously. I’m assuming I was picked because I used to be a thief before?”

“Still are, if our sources are correct,” says the Widow through a mouthful of fruit.

“A gentleman never tells,” winks Stark.

“So, _Anthony_ ,” says Fury, sounding like the disapproving father figure he never had. “What’ll it be?”

“Yeah, first. What about that…”— _man_ doesn’t sound like enough to describe the relentless killing machine that had been sent after them—“ _thing_ in the next room?” They’d been kept separately while Fury had spoken to the Soldier first. Stark had grown antsy enough to start picking the locks.“I’m surprised KGB’s agreed to lease their precious asset.”

“Barnes’s situation is a bit more complicated.”

“He has a name?”

“James Buchanan Barnes. American POW. Enhanced with a super serum, brainwashed into serving the Motherland. Just like I was.”

“You’re _Russian_?”

“Natasha Romanoff, bona fide product of the Red Room. I never ran around with the Soldier but I’m familiar enough with his work.” Her grin is as sharp as the knife spinning in her hands. “Fury took me in when I defected, and now I operate for the good guys. It’s _thrilling_.”

“And you think Barnes is going to turn over a new leaf just like that?”

“I hope so.” The Soldier steps through the door, looking like an utterly different man. He’s still dressed in combat wear but his hair is loose, streaming past his ears. His eyes, Stark is startled to note, are a clear blue-grey. “The Russians stole years from my life, my freedom. Fury promised payback.”

“KGB sent Barnes as a double agent. I proposed he becomes a _triple_ agent in return for our help in removing his programming. We have enough resources, and Romanoff has experience with deconditioning.”

The Soldier glares at Natasha, as if just now noticing her. “You cracked my goggles.”

“It got you distracted enough,” she shrugs.

He considers, then nods his head. “Was nice shot.”

“Well, this should be fun.” Stark picks up the folder with a sigh. “Hey, are you open to suggestions regarding the name? Because I’m not calling us _UNCLE_ …”

* * *

 

_One Year Later_

* * *

 

Natasha pinches a sodden strand of hair between her fingers in annoyance. “And I’d just gotten it dyed.” It was a cheap brand, the best she could do at the moment. Her fingers come away sticky with _#56 Bashful Blonde_.

James, his back to her, wrings out his hat into a vase of flowers and mutters, “You look better in red anyway.”

“Not the point.” Their hotel room is small, but thankfully not as cramped as the red telephone booth they’d been forced to take shelter in from the rain storm. Everywhere she had turned was James, hair plastered against his skull, his trench coat dripping onto her tights. She’d held herself utterly still, trying not to notice the drops of water glittering on his unfairly long lashes, as they waited for the weather to improve.

“You could have taken the shot, you know,” she says pointedly. “Even with the hood down, the windows up, the wind blowing in your face.”

“I could have, yes,” he answers. “But I elected not to take the risk.”

It still caught her by surprise sometimes how much he had changed. Gone was the sullen, silent, ruthless assassin. She remembered how unerringly he’d stalked them that night in East Berlin, a predator without any consideration for collateral damage. He was as deadly as the stories had made him out to be, and Natasha, despite herself, had felt fear. But now, after averting a couple of world-ending crises, followed by months outside the KGB’s pernicious influence, peeling layer after layer of programming, another man was emerging. And for Natasha, this new man was even more dangerous to her than the Winter Soldier.

“And days of recon and intel gathering just went down the drain.” It was supposed to be simple. Their target liked cruising in his cherry red convertible with the roof down. There was too much security in his house; the plan had been to take Vincent out with a sniper rifle from the rooftop across the moment he got into his car. What they hadn’t reckoned for was the heavens opening up and pouring over all of their hard work.

“The weather is never anyone’s fault. Especially _London_ weather.”

“What about Stark? Let’s blame Stark.”

“ _That_ I’m on board with.”

As if on cue, the doorknob rattles and Stark’s voice floats in through the door. “Are you kids playing hide the zucchini?”

Natasha rolls her eyes and goes to let him in. An irritating grin spreads across his face at the sight of the two of them dripping on the hardwood floor like a couple of bedraggled cats. “My, my. Don’t you two look…wet.”

“I see your wit is at its finest,” says James.

The Tony Stark she’d first met had been calm and competent, despite being more than a little unnerved by the appearance of the Soldier. The Tony Stark now, although still a genius, was a smug and suave idiot. If she’d known that night how annoying he really was, Natasha would have dumped him in the no man’s stretch over the Wall.

Stark lounges on the chaise in his perfectly dry three-piece suit getting filled in on the snag in the plan as James and Natasha take turns changing.

“Well, guess we’ll have to move to Plan B.”

Natasha, who had headed into the bathroom, reappears with a toothbrush. “I hate Plan B,” she states through a mouthful of paste. She and James were _always_ assigned as the couple whenever the situation demanded it. Reluctant alliance had turned to grudging respect which had turned to friendly regard which had in turn become something…more. Natasha didn’t want any more confusion in her life, thank you very much.

James crosses his arm. “Yeah, why can’t you and Stark play happy marriage this time?”

“Because, my dear soldier, no one would ever believe I could be with someone like _her_ ,” drawls Stark, which gets him a bottle of vanilla-scented lotion chucked at his head. He dodges with ease. He’s not so lucky with the tube of lipstick. “That could have been _open_.” Aghast, Stark inspects his suit for any red smudges.

“Just once I would like to kick back and relax while the two of you be the couple,” Natasha grumbles.“I mean, come one, it’s the 60s.”

“As _appealing_ as the notion is,” interjects Stark with an exaggerated wink directed at James. “I’ve already made the identity papers under your married names.” He pushes himself off the chaise and slaps his palms together twice. “See you in Paris, folks. La ville la plus romantique du monde, vous devriez être chez vous."

Natasha, who speaks twelve languages, shoots him a look that promises death. James, who specialises more in the Slavic family of languages, appears confused. And Stark, who hadn’t failed to notice the way Natasha’s eyes tracked the lines of James’ soaked clinging shirt, just smiles broadly.

* * *

 

The parameters of their mission change when they land in Paris.

“There’s talk of an accomplice,” Fury’s voice crackles through the secure phone line. “A partner Vincent is selling weapons with. It’s good you three waited until his final day in London to take him out. We’re lucky it rained. Otherwise this accomplice would have slipped away.”

James throws Natasha a _hah_ glance. She steadfastly refuses to look his way. She’s stubborn. That’s what he loves about her.

Wait, _loves_?

“Don’t kill Vincent yet. Maintain your covers, find out about his partner, and then we’ll take a call. There’s a fashion launch tomorrow, I believe. Vincent might meet his accomplice there.”

“’Cover’ he says,” mutters Stark, once they’ve finished the briefing. “Devilishly handsome socialite is just another facet of my personality.”

“You’ll have to do your _socialising_ at the hotel,”James points out. “It’s a good opportunity to bug his room.”

Stark appears crestfallen, then perks up. “I’ve been meaning to try these cute new things anyway. They’re as small as a button.”

“Come, _husband_ ,” says Natasha, slipping her arm through his. “I need an outfit for the party.”

It’s unnerving how easily they fit into this rhythm. James would like to chalk it up to them playing the role multiple times, but in reality, it’d felt as natural the first instance they’d pretended to be an engaged couple in front of the Vinciguerras. To be honest, he’d been smitten since Berlin itself, when she’d faced the Winter Soldier brazenly and shot him point-blank. And that was before he’d learnt how deadly she could be _without_ a weapon. The Black Widow could kill you with a smile and her bare hands, but that wasn’t what terrified James.

Natasha had stood by him through every step of the deprogramming, through every evaluation. She was there when they removed his last trigger, she was there when he woke up in the night, drenched in sweat, screaming. She covered for him when he froze and couldn’t shoot a skinny blond man; Fury was displeased and Natasha had quietly taken the blame for it.

Sometimes he feels like he could bear it. But sometimes, like now, with the warmth of her hand on his, the sun picking out the green in her eyes, James feels like he could become undone with just a word.

* * *

 

“I swear they get bigger and bigger with every year.” James gestures at the enormous sunglasses that cover half her face.

“You sound like a grumpy old man,” Natasha laughs. The round enamelled frames match her tangerine mod dress perfectly.

“I _am_ a grumpy old man,” mutters James. He’s dressed in all black for the party, his left hand hidden in a glove. It’s a versatile material Stark had come up with, mimicking skin even if you looked closely enough.

They mingle freely through the crowd, playing the part of a social climbing couple from London fabulously. James loses track of Natasha for a few moments, focused as he is on a dodgy-looking man who’s just arrived. Suspicious man turns out to be the ambassador’s son, a sleazeball definitely, but not what they’re looking for.

The next he sees Natasha she’s at the bar across the room. Her black wig is itching her, he notices, and a couple of times her hand strays up to scratch it, pivoting at the last moment to adjust her earrings. James smiles to himself. The smile soon turns into a frown when Vincent the arms dealer materialises next to Natasha.

They weren’t supposed to make contact with the mark. James thinks about heading to the bar and whisking her away on some pretense, but stops himself. Natasha is better at this than him; she can handle herself.

All the same, James keeps a hawk eye on them. Slowly circling the room, sipping on his wine, he watches the way Vincent leans towards her, the way Natasha bites her lower lip in response. James has withstood torture that has tested his resolve less than Vincent placing a proprietary hand on Natasha’s bare shoulder and not removing it.

Still. James doesn’t move. He cannot ruin the mission, he tells himself. Natasha can take down the idiot in two seconds flat with only a hairpin.

And then, Natasha spots something in the throng. Her face pales.

James is barely conscious of crossing the room but suddenly he’s there beside her, flashing a smile at Vincent, murmuring an excuse, and gently steering Natasha to the private balcony.

By the time he finishes lighting his cigarette, she has composed herself.

“What is it?”

“I thought I saw someone.” She’s squinting through the French windows. “Someone I knew.”

“From the Red Room?”

Natasha nods slowly. “Turns out it was just another old woman. What would Madame B be doing here anyway? I’m being silly.”

“No, you’re not.”

She lets her gaze ghost over him for a fraction of a second. “Do you think we’ll ever stop looking over our backs?”

“Probably never.” While Natasha had escaped the Red Room ages ago, he’s still a KGB agent. From time to time, he meets his handlers in abandoned warehouses, passes them scraps of intelligence that Fury deems appropriate, and pretends to be the Winter Soldier. Every rendezvous is a nerve-wracking affair, knowing that the Russians are _this_ close to finding out that their precious asset has gone rogue. “However it’s the life we’ve picked. And we’ve chosen to do something meaningful with it.” There _will_ be a reckoning, he knows. The world is not so benevolent as to give him Natasha without taking something away. “You know, I’m surprised we’ve never worked together before.”

“Our handlers knew we were both lone wolves.”

“But you do agree, we work well together now? And Stark too, I suppose. Unfortunately.”

She laughs and the world feels right again.

* * *

 

Vincent invites them to his company party (strongly hinting at Natasha to leave her husband behind) which gives them a good opportunity to search his office for information on the elusive accomplice. So Natasha dons a smile along with the itchy black wig and accompanies James to the event. Stark gains himself an invite by “bumping” into a drunk guest loitering outside.

Natasha and James slip into Vincent’s office and rummage through the drawers and cabinets. She riffles through typewritten files in silence, holding them up to the faint moonlight streaming through the window and places them back carefully. James goes methodically through the bookshelves, occasionally directing a whispered question toward her.

Her palm hits the hollow bottom of a drawer. Natasha wrenches it open to find a light blue ceramic case. “James, look at this.” Inside, lies a shiny round disc. “Jackpot,” she murmurs.

James’ head whips towards the door. “Someone’s coming.”

By now Natasha can hear it too. Footsteps, and a loud voice that she recognises as Stark’s. “When I said I wanted to see the Manet I didn’t mean _now_ , Vincent.”

“I insist. I’d like your opinion as a curator.”

Natasha meets James’ eyes in the dark. He points toward the window. She shakes her head. “Alarms,” she mouths. He gets into position by the door and takes out his revolver.

Slipping the disc into her bra, Natasha makes a decision.

She strides to James and wrenches him by the collar. “Do you trust me?” she whispers.

He nods without hesitation.

She walks him backward to the desk and crashes her lips onto his.

She’d be lying if she said Natasha hadn’t imagined kissing him. This was better and worse than she had expected. James is a talented kisser, and the moans he elicits from her as their tongues battle for dominance are far from fake. His hands slide across her back, cup her behind and pull her closer. She tugs at his hair forcefully and bites down at his throat. He shudders.

But the _mission_ is always at the back of her mind. They’re only doing this to make enough of a scene. Vincent needs to be distracted enough, she keeps telling herself. Until. Until James whispers her name like a prayer and Natasha decides to just let go and _feel_. His warmth, his smell, the little gasps of breath he takes when she sucks on his earlobe. And then, just before Vincent and Stark reach the door, James takes her face in his hands, nudges her nose with his, and gently touches his mouth to her lips once, twice, thrice.

The door flies open with a crash and Natasha jolts awake as if from deep slumber. Beside her James looks dazed, pupils dilated, his hair a ruin about his ears.

“What are you doing here??” demands Vincent. “This is my office.”

Stark, probably for the first time in his life, appears speechless. Natasha hides a grin as she says, “I’m so sorry. We went looking for a private corner and got carried away.” She sways drunkenly. “You know how it is.”

Vincent’s mouth tightens. “Please leave before I call security.”

James clears his throat and leans down to lend Natasha his shoulder. “I apologise. We’ll be on our way.”

Natasha adjusts her bra, ascertains that the disc is still there and allows James to support her out the door.

* * *

 

She finds him on a park bench overlooking the lake, reading _The International Times_.

“May I?”

He folds the paper precisely along the crease and nods. She sits beside him, their hands a hairsbreadth away, their knees separated by a wide gulf.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She considers lying, then says, “I have.”

“If I made you uncomfortable that night in the office, I’m sorry.” His jaw clenches.

It _was_ about the night in the office, but not for the reason he thinks. Natasha had laid awake for hours, replaying his last kiss again and again in her mind. It had been sweet, and pure, and hopeful. Tears had sprung into her eyes then at the realisation that they could never be those things.

“We were just playing a role,” he bulls on. The words seem to pain him.

“It wasn’t just a role to me,” she blurts.

James stares at with wide eyes.

“The Red Room took a lot of things from me. Including the ability to recognise genuine emotion.” She takes a deep breath. “Which is why I’m telling you that I wasn’t pretending in the hope that you would reciprocate my honesty. Even if the answer devastates me. Because I cannot live with this uncertainty.”

There's a silence that stretches on for eternities.

“If you feel that I kissed you like I loved you,” says James slowly, lacing his hand through hers. “Like I would walk to the ends of earth for you.” He kisses her fingers once, twice, thrice. “Then you would not be wrong. Not at all.”

Natasha’s vision blurs. “How..? We are not normal people. We can never live normal lives.”

“We don’t need to. We can be us, maybe that’s enough.”

“And hey, normal is boring,” says a voice from behind. Natasha startles to see Stark, grinning like a maniac, hands hooked in his pockets. He collapses on the bench and inclines his head. “What, did I interrupt something?”

“Stark.” James’ tone promises violence. “You have the most _excellent_ timing.”

“Why, thank you.” He retrieves the disc from his pocket and flaps it in their faces like a bird. “Oh and I also found out who the partner is. So you’re _welcome_.”

“Stark, you’re this close to getting tossed in the lake,” says Natasha.

“And here I was going to split my winnings with you.”

“There was a _pool_?? Please tell me Fury doesn’t know.”

“Oh, it was his idea. Why do you think he kept pairing you guys for the undercover missions? He was trying to tip the scales in his favour.”

“I’m going to have words with Fury,” promises Natasha. “Angry words.”

"Not before we drink a toast." He produces a flask out of nowhere, along with three collapsible glasses.

"Where were you hiding those?" asks James, perplexed.

"Stark, you may have just redeemed yourself," notes Natasha as they sip the champagne in the wintry sunlight. Their next mission awaits them, and the one after, then the next and for the first time Natasha feels hopeful enough to greet the coming years like an old friend.

**Author's Note:**

> La ville la plus romantique du monde, vous devriez être chez vous = The most romantic city in the world, you two should feel right at home.


End file.
